


Don't Blink

by idreamtofreality



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Animated Series, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Adopted Children, Children, Happy, M/M, Old Married Spirk Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 16:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12751902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idreamtofreality/pseuds/idreamtofreality
Summary: Spock and Jim sit together on a porch swing and reminisce on their past.Literally nothing bad happens. They're happy. Let them be happy.





	Don't Blink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frenchmeafry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchmeafry/gifts).



The sunset is a mixture of gold, red, and orange. Once, Spock would have attributed this to various aspects of science: there are chemicals in the air, the light waves are bouncing off the particles, et cetera. But after Jim, after everything they’ve been through…

He lets out his breath and turns his face into the wind. After Jim, he can’t help but see the beauty as well as the science. After Jim, the beauty is so much powerful than the science, but the two enhance each other. Spock understands this, now. He understands that beauty and emotion--they don’t have to contradict science and logic. They can complement each other. Jim, his beautiful golden man, and Spock. They complement each other. And, as Jim pointed out early one morning while they sipped at mugs of tea, Spock’s human and vulcan half complement each other.

It is as Spock thinks of this that Jim sinks into the porch swing next to him, rocking them both backward for a moment as the swing settles. He accepts the cup of cocoa that Jim hands him and gives his husband a raised eyebrow.

“I am getting old for chocolate,” he says, and Jim laughs heartily.

“You’ll never be too old for chocolate.”

Spock sips at the drink in question and gestures to Jim’s own cup. “And is that anything but hot chocolate or are you putting me at a disadvantage for a reason?”

“It’s spiked,” Jim assures him. “You know I’d never let you drink by yourself.” He punctuates this sentence with another laugh, but it’s much quieter this time: a soft chuckle rather than the laugh before, which had rocked his entire body. “Hey, Spock?”

“Yes, ashayam.”

Jim gives him such a warm smile that Spock feels something like a sob building up in his chest. He will never be tired of that smile, those eyes. “Are you happy?”

Many years ago, on the bridge of the enterprise, wearing science blues and standing with Nyota Uhura, with Hikaru Sulu, with Pavel Chekov, with Janice Rand, with Christine Chapel, with Montgomery Scott, with Leonard Mccoy, with _Jim_ but as his Captain and friend and barely anything more, he would have denied happiness as a possibility. He would have made some bogus claim that vulcans cannot feel happiness, and then added when Leonard Mccoy objected that no, vulcans do not lie, Doctor. But much has changed since then. He regards happiness not as shameful, but as a wondrous reality.

“Yes,” Spock says, “Yes, of course, ashaya. Of course I am happy.”

Jim sighs in content and leans his head against Spock’s shoulder. One hand grips his cup of cocoa and one hand rests on Spock’s leg, thumb stroking a pattern onto Spock’s pants. “Do you ever think about how it started? You and me, I mean.”

Does Spock think about how they started? When did Spock not think about how they started? Jim had shaped him completely; that is what having a t’hy’la meant. He is Spock’s other half. He makes him complete. How could Spock _not_ think about how they started when Jim was the person who made him who he was?

Instead, however, he carefully crafts his reply, because he is still a vulcan, and vulcans do not speak without first thinking.

“To what extent, Jim?”

Jim twists to look at him, a question in his eyes, and Spock decides to clarify.

“Do you mean the moment at which we entered a romantic relationship? Do you mean the moment at which we realized a romantic relationship between us is a distinct possibility? Or perhaps do you mean the moment at which we realized we are”--Spock reaches down and twines his fingers through Jim’s, savoring the tingling thrill that races up his arm and down his spine--“t’hy’la?”

Jim rubs his cheek against Spock’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “All of it. From the very beginning. The moment you looked at me and realized there might be more to what we were. More than friendship.”

For a moment, Spock just watches the sun crawl toward the horizon. For a moment, he just enjoys the warmth of his husband at his side. Then he says, “We were on a mission. You...stopped to pick flowers. No matter what the situation, you were always prepared to see beauty rather than misery. In any situation, you were ready to sacrifice yourself for that beauty, even though you were the most...beautiful thing in the room.”

Jim squeezes Spock’s hand.

“That is when I knew, at least.”

“You wanna know when I knew?”

“I do.”

Jim presses his lips to Spock’s shoulder. “We just got back from a mission. You and I, we both almost died a couple times at least. My shirt was ripped to hell and so was yours, somehow, which never happened before. We were walking back to our quarters, just...grateful that we were alive. I said something dumb. Some really bad joke. And you _laughed_.”

Spock remembers this. He remembers this very clearly. He was full of such a strange mixture of shame and gratitude afterward that he performed quite poorly for another week after that.

“Anyway,” Jim says, “I look over at you, and you’re laughing for the first time, at least that I’ve seen. And you have the most beautiful smile. And I tell you so. And you blush bright green and you practically ran away and I think that’s when I knew. Seeing your smile for the first time. Seeing what you hid so often for the first time and getting to experience it in its entirety. And now…” He sets his mug down and wraps his other arm around Spock, the curly hair of his head tickling Spock’s sensitive nose. “And now I get to experience it every day. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Neither would I, ashayam.”

They share a kiss, now. Jim’s lips are as soft as ever.

“We entered a romantic relationship,” Spock says, “After I died. I think we waited far too long.” He intends this to be lighthearted--a joke, even, but Jim doesn’t laugh. He sighs and releases Spock, returning to his original position leaning against the back of the porch swing.

“Yes. We did. We could have had so much time together, Spock, and we wasted so much of it. For what? For professionalism?”

“We have each other now, Jim,” Spock answers carefully. “Isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes, Spock. You’re right. Of course you’re right. I just wished I could have kissed you when we were both young. When we had the energy to...I don’t know. Explore the entire universe and not have to blink once.”

“We explored the universe. We were not together, but I was at your side, as I should have been, and you were at mine.”

Jim quiets for a moment. His arm snakes around the arch of Spock’s back and rests there, comfortable. “What about the moment you realized we were soulmates? Do you remember that?”

The silence stretches out between them, but it is a relaxed silence. It is peaceful. Jim knows Spock thinks before he speaks, and he has never once criticized him for long pauses--if he did, Spock would have to point out that the amount Jim pauses in everyday speech is equivalent if not greater than the pausing Spock does while pondering.

“T’hy’la means brother, lover, and friend,” Spock says, “And ‘brother’ never means by blood. It means one would sacrifice themselves for their t’hy’la. It is beyond being friends, but many species--especially humans--find this difficult to accept. They view t’hy’la as sectionary. One is a brother, or a lover, or a friend, but not all at once. That is not how it is. T’hy’la means all of these things and more. T’hy’la means brother, lover, friend, soulmate, savior; t’hy’la means two completed halves. It means two people have found a purpose in life, and that purpose is in each other.”

Jim listens to all of this with a rather thoughtful expression, and Spock remembers that he hasn’t quite answered the question yet.

“I thought I was incapable of having a t’hy’la,” he tells his husband. “I am half vulcan, but I am also half human. I was afraid that, not only would my life be shorter, but that I would have to live out the entirety of said life with no one to share it with. I would not have a relationship like the one my mother and father had. I would never find comfort in someone as they did. And then I found you, Jim, and I watched all that you did, and at first I admired you. You had more emotion than anyone I had ever known and yet you were stronger still. You used your emotions to your advantage. When I was growing up, that was not an option. Our emotions, while strong, were smothered behind walls of logic. So I was, I thought, your opposite, and together we made some sort of balance. I began to think that, perhaps, even if I could never have a companion like my father did, I could at least find my other half in you.”

“And you did,” says Jim.

“Yes. I did. I did not, however, consider the other aspects of being t’hy’la with you. We were compatible in more ways than one. We were compatible in mannerisms, in habits, and in personality, but our minds, too, were compatible. I thought my calling you my t’hy’la in my head was merely a metaphor for the kind of closeness I felt to you, but that was certainly not it. We are indeed t’hy’la. Our minds began to meld together in the kind of intricacy that could only be found between…” He lingers on this last word as he finishes his cocoa. The chocolate has already begun to make him a little dizzy, and he’s pleased with the feeling. “Soulmates,” he finishes at last, and sets the empty mug on the arm of the porch swing.

“And you didn’t say anything to me,” says Jim. The words are accusatory, but the tone is gentle, perhaps even sad.

“No.”

“Even though being t’hy’la is always mutual.”

Spock hesitates. “Yes.”

“What held you back?”

“You were my captain, Jim, and we were doing missions together. I could not risk distraction.”

“Oh, really.” Now Jim’s tone is flat.

“I was afraid,” Spock admits.

“Yeah. I know.”

The sun is sinking lower. It’s just barely visible over the mountains, and Spock misses the soft golden light.

“Against logic,” Spock says, “Against everything that I knew, I was afraid that you would reject me, and that I would have to live with that rejection. I did not want that. I did not know if I could live with that.”

“Well, I didn’t reject you.”

“No. You did not.” He looks over at is husband, whose visibility is quickly decreasing in the dimming light. “When did you know we were t’hy’la?”

The smile that comes from this question is bright and cheerful--containing of far too much energy for this late into the afternoon. “When we mind-melded for the first time. I didn’t know what it meant, but that word kept going through my head just over and over. T’hy’la. I thought it was gibberish, until one day I heard a vulcan we met on one of our missions say it and I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence.”

“You still did not know what it meant.”

“No. I didn’t know until you told me.”

Brother, lover, friend--all of these and more. That’s Jim. And that is also, Spock thinks with some amazement, Spock to Jim. They are everything to each other. They find the universe in each other’s eyes. If they had met before starfleet, Spock wonders if he might have been content just exploring the stars within Jim instead of the ones above their heads.

A little ways behind the porch swing where Spock rocks slowly with his husband, the screen door pushes open and a girl comes out with a squirming toddler on her hip. “Dads,” she calls out, “You still out here?”

Jim waves his hand and their daughter lugs the toddler toward them. “Astra. I thought you would still be feeding Lyras.”

“They’ve finally filled up,” she says, and grins at both of her fathers. This is, not for the first time, a little jarring to Spock; Astra has vulcan features and a traditional vulcan haircut, but Jim and Spock had no qualms in allowing her to embrace the entirety of her emotions. Smiles, for her, were not uncommon, and Spock had yet to be used to the blatant emotional display paired with equally blatant vulcan characteristics. “The kid’s going to eat you out of house and home.”

Jim beams at her and holds out his arms, and Astra slowly lowers Lyras into his arms.

“Good choice, I think,” she says to Spock, settling in the small place between his hip and the edge of the porch swing. It is meant to be for two people, but Spock can’t help but sit as close to Jim as possible. “Naming them Lyras. You ever consider Kerak?”

“One without bowl,” says Spock when Jim shoots him a questioning glance; “Essentially, one who will never go hungry. And, Astra. Do you really think that would have been appropriate?”

She laughs. Her voice is still low, but it’s getting higher every day, and Jim takes every chance he gets to point this out to her. He points it out to her now before returning to tickling Lyras’s soft stomach.

They debated this for some time--adopting the children. They were both getting quite old when they married and settled down, but Jim wanted to help the children. Jim _always_ wanted to help the children.

So they adopted.

First, of course, was Astra. She was a seven-year-old in a vulcan orphanage, and she was miserable. A quick name change and sign-up for hormones fixed that quickly, and now she is content with unnerving both of her fathers with both her unnerving control of emotions and quick outbursts of the same thing. Spock often tells her she would start a revolution with Sybok, should they ever meet and step onto Vulcan together.

Then a few years later, Astra convinced them to adopt Lyras from an orphanage in San Francisco. They were only two, and nameless to boot, but it only took a couple minutes for Astra to suggest Lyras as a name and only a few minutes more for everyone to agree on it.

It is curious, Spock thinks as he wraps one arm around his daughter and the other around his husband and toddler, and perhaps a little wonderful that his vulcan daughter’s name is human, and their human child’s name is vulcan. It puts a nice twist on things. It emphasizes that they are all truly unique, and Spock never has to feel alone with them.

“So,” says Astra only a moment after Spock finishes thinking all of this; “What were you two talking about out here?”

“We were only pondering our history,” Spock says. “That is all.”

“Your history?” She raises one angled eyebrow, and Jim reaches up to touch it, a soft smile on his face. She swats his hand away. “Do you mean your _romantic_ history?”

Spock exchanges a quick glance with his husband, who has somehow managed to get their toddler to sleep in under five minutes. “Yes,” Jim says. “Our romantic history.”

“I see.” She picks up Spock’s cup and sniffs at it a few times. “Hm. Chocolate.”

“Yes.” Spock lifts it out of her hand. “For which you are too young.”

“Just wanted to try. Besides.” She points one slender finger at Jim, a wicked smile on her face. “ _He_ lets me have chocolate.”

“Do not!” Jim protests. Spock laughs and kisses his cheeks.

“It is fine, Jim. As long as you do not do it in front of me.”

Jim gives Spock that smile--that gentle smile that rounds his cheeks and crinkles his eyes seemingly without effort. “Why, Mister Spock,” he says, “Where is the logic in that?”

“Marrying you has given me cause to abandon logic.”

Astra rolls her eyes. “You two. I swear.” And then she hops up, walks to Jim, and scoops Lyras into her arms. “I’ll put them to bed. And don’t stay up too late, okay? You’re getting old.”

“Getting?” Jim chuckles. “My dear Astra, I am already there.”

“Yeah, yeah. Good night, you two.” As she enters the house again, she says, “Computer, porch light on,” and the twilight around them is illuminated.

“She’s going to be gone soon,” Jim carefully notes, his legs stretching out in front of him. “Off to Vulcan Sciences Academy, or Starfleet, or wherever she ends up going.”

“I saw some pamphlets for a university on the counter,” Spock says. “It is likely she left those there for us to see. Perhaps she wants to go to school first.”

“It would certainly be an adventure.” Jim sniffles and wipes his eyes. “I’m going to miss her.”

“We will have ample opportunity to communicate with her.”

“I know. But it isn’t the same.”

“No,” Spock agrees, “It is not.”

The last of the sun’s rays have disappeared, and the sky has turned a deep purple that’s slowly receding behind the mountains, too.

“Of course I am happy,” Spock says aloud. “I have you. I have Astra. I have Lyras. No matter what happens in the future--if Astra leaves, if we get called away to Starfleet again, if someone somewhere needs my diplomatic abilities, know that we will have each other, and we will have these moments to remember. We can know that, at least for these last years, we were exceptionally happy.”

“Oh, Spock,” says Jim, “You old sap.” And he kisses him again, and Spock tastes the smile shaping his lips. “My ashaya,” he murmurs.

“Ashayam,” Spock replies. “I have been, and always shall be, yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lyras: being who carried emotion


End file.
